Windows
The boy stood in the dim moonlight that streamed through the open window, staring at the man asleep in the bed. He didn’t know why he was here, nor did he care. All he knew was that somehow, one way or another, that man would make his pain go away. “Captain,” he called softly, the words coming out as a choked sob.
Hook was wide awake in an instant. Years of life as a pirate had disciplined him to be a light sleeper as a defense against attacks in the night. Immediately he saw his danger: the small boy beside his bed visible as a sharp shadow against the light of the moon. With a snarl he leapt from his bed and pounced on the boy, lifting him by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall. He pinned him there, the tip of his hook pressed against the small throat, the boy’s face inches from his own.
“Pan,” he growled in triumph. “I must be dreaming. I never expected you’d ever be this foolish.” He chuckled, wishing he could see the brat well enough to perceive the fear that must be in his eyes. He could feel the boy trembling, could hear his shaky breaths. “Any last words, boy?”
Peter stared into Hook’s dark face, the shadows swirling in his tear filled eyes. “She’s dead,” he moaned softly.
“What?” Hook asked, perplexed by Peter’s response. “Who is dead? Your pixie?”
Peter’s shaking intensified and Hook realized it was from crying, not fear. “My mother,” he whispered. “My mommy’s dead.”
Hook blinked in confusion. “Your mother?” he scoffed. “You don’t have a mother, pixie-spawn!” Peter wailed at that, his hands coming up to cover his face. The boy’s lack of resistance, coupled with his cries, only increased Hook’s unease. Slowly he set the child on his feet and stepped back. Peter sank to his knees and hunched over, his sobs coming harder now.
“Odds and bobs, brat,” Hook growled as he ran his hand over his eyes, clearing the sleep from them. “Why did you come here?” Peter didn’t answer so Hook let him be, taking the time to light a lantern and close the window again. Then he sat in a chair and considered the boy curled up against the wall. Despite himself, his curiosity was piqued, and so he waited patiently for Peter to calm down and explain himself.
After several long minutes, Peter’s sobs subsided and he dried his eyes on his sleeve. He sniffed loudly and looked up at Hook sadly. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Did you want me to?” Hook scoffed. He paused at the despondent way Peter stared at him and realized the boy had actually been hoping for just such an outcome. “What happened, Pan? You’ve been missing for days and when you come back, you seek me out to kill you?”
Peter looked down and stared at his hands, too ashamed to look his enemy in his eyes. “I remembered my mommy. I wanted to see her again, I missed her so. So I went home.”
“Home?” Hook echoed thoughtfully. It was strange for him to think this eldritch child had a home other than Neverland – that there was enough of a human in Peter for him to actually have a mother. Hook had long since decided that Peter Pan was a fairy creation whose sole purpose was to torment him. Seeing otherwise was both intriguing and frightening.
“I found my home again… Tink didn’t want me to go. She said I wouldn’t like what I saw and reminded me of what happened last time I tried to go home.” Peter moaned again at the memory and tears once more fell from his eyes.
“You tried to leave Neverland before?” Hook asked, leaning forwards. Peter nodded dumbly, hugging himself as he tried to stop his tears. He startled when Hook abruptly knelt before him and held out a handkerchief. But he took it and wiped his face, taking a strange comfort from the polite gesture.
“Twice before I’ve tried to go back to her,” Peter said softly. “The first time, the window was open – the window I’d left her by – so I flew inside. She was sleeping and she looked so sad. I played my pipes for her until she smiled.” Peter smiled wistfully at that. “She whispered my name and it sounded so lovely in her voice. I missed her so much that I decided I’d return to her and be a good son. I’d grow up for her. But I was afraid,” his voice broke and he stifled another sob.
Hook took Peter’s arm and gently pulled the boy to his feet, then guided him to a chair. “No sense in me having to sit on the floor to hear you properly,” Hook groused as he poured Peter a cup of water. While the boy drank it and composed himself, Hook pulled another chair up so he could sit and face him. Once he was settled and Peter had calmed, he prompted the boy to speak again. “You were afraid? Of what?”
“Of growing up. Of growing older and losing the magic. Of dying…” Peter chuckled a bit at that. “I came here to flee death, and yet I fight you every day. But you’re everything I was afraid I’d become, so I must fight you.”
Hook quirked an eyebrow at that but refrained from commenting. Peter Pan was everything he wished he could be again. Life was filled with little ironies like that.
“I was afraid of what it would mean if I stayed with her, but I wanted her so much. So I promised her I’d come again to stay… I just needed to say goodbye to my life here. So I came back, and I did say goodbye. I love Neverland, but I decided I’d give it up for her. And finally I went back.” Peter’s eyes hardened and his face twisted into a scowl. “My window was closed and there was another boy asleep in my bed. I could see my mother smiling at him and I could hear her singing a lullaby to him. I tried to open the window, to go to her, but it was barred to keep me out. I called for her, I tried to break through to get inside, but she wouldn’t hear me.” Peter shook, his despair palpable. “I’d waited too long and she replaced me. She didn’t love me anymore!”
A tremor went through the ship and the cup in Peter’s hands shattered. Books flew about the room, accompanied by various instruments and bric-a-brac. Hook saw Peter’s fists clench again, saw the blood seep between his fingers as he ground the fragments of the cup into his palms.
“Peter, calm down!” Hook yelled, diving towards the boy to avoid the whirlwind of debris. He took the boy by the shoulders and shook him gently, staring into his blue, slightly glazed eyes. “PETER!”
The boy blinked, his eyes focusing slowly on the captain as his mind retreated from the memory. The objects in the air slowly settled to the floor, gently enough that they did not break. His hands uncurled and he began to feel the pain in them; pain he felt was deserved. “I shouldn’t have left her. She must have been angry at me, so angry she didn’t want me anymore. I thought mommies loved their children forever, no matter what. But my mommy locked me out.”
Hook was relieved to see that Peter’s tears came again; crying was a normal reaction for a child, not the demonic display of power that Peter had just made. As Peter once again began sobbing, Hook pulled him into his arms and sat in the chair, holding the boy in his lap. If he ever wanted to hear the end of this story, Peter was going to have to calm down. Not that he could blame the boy for his tears – Hook couldn’t imagine how devastated he’d have been if his own mother had ever outright rejected him.
“I’m sure she didn’t know you’d ever come back, Peter. She was asleep when you made that promise, wasn’t she?” Peter nodded his head dumbly. Hook wiped his face again, then turned his attention to the boy’s hands. He pulled the bits of porcelain out of the cuts, thankful it had broken into large pieces. Splinters would have been infinitely more difficult to get out. Hook used the handkerchief to wrap the child’s right hand, which had a nasty gash across the palm.
“There now,” he took a breath and looked at Peter again. The boy was staring at him intently, a strange expression on his face. “I’m sure your mother still wanted you very much,” Hook continued, “and I know she still loved you. Parents often have more than one child; they can love them all equally. Just because she had another little boy to love doesn’t mean she stopped loving you. Don’t think of him as your replacement; see him for who he really was – your little brother.”
“My brother,” Peter said softly. “I had a family… but not anymore. It hurts inside to know I can never go back. Always before I had thought that when the game was over, I’d fly back to her and she’d hold me and tell me she loved me. When I couldn’t, I was so angry. I decided that all grown-ups were hateful, parents especially. I made myself believe I didn’t need her.” He let himself relax and leaned against Hook’s chest. “Even if you had been a good man, we still would have fought. I hate all grown-ups, except Chief Panther. But I knew him when he was a child too.”
Hook nodded a bit. He found himself for the first time actually understanding Peter, seeing who and what he really was. The implications of this insight disturbed him, but he wanted to hear the rest of this story. He needed to know what would drive Pan to seek death at his enemy’s hook, so he let the boy remain in his lap. He reassured himself that this comfort he gave the child was a precaution only, not a show of concern. Pan had exhibited signs of being suicidal and had demonstrated powers that Hook had not known existed. The dangerous child had to be kept calm.
“So you remembered her and decided to go see her again?” Hook prompted.
“I thought maybe she had gotten tired of the new boy… my brother. Maybe the window would be open again. When I got there, it was open. I was so happy, I crowed. I woke up the woman in the room, and she screamed when she saw me fly inside… she wasn’t my mother, she was old.” Peter closed his eyes, remembering the kind elderly lady. “Once she got over her fright and I got over being upset, we talked. She gave me cookies. Tink… Tink knew my mother’s name, so I asked the lady if she knew my mother. The woman looked at me funny… said my mommy was her great-grandmother. She told me where to find her.”
Hook put his arms around Peter, knowing already where this was going. Peter, apparently, had not and had blithely flown to the cemetery without letting the woman finish explaining what he’d find there. In broken sentences, barely audible through his tears, Peter told how Tink had helped him find the proper headstone. How she’d read to him the names of his mother and father, and the dates they’d been born and died. He told of the child’s headstone beside his mother’s, with the name ‘Peter’ engraved upon it and the dates. Peter had been only five when he’d disappeared, too young for Hook to give credence to the notion that the boy had run away of his own accord. There had been another headstone bearing the same family name, a man named David who’d died at the ripe age of sixty-eight, possibly Peter’s brother by the birth date upon it. He’d been born three years after Peter had ‘died’.
Hook held the boy, letting Peter mourn the death of his family – the family he should have had, people that would have been with him for his entire life, that he would have loved and would have loved him in return. Instead, he’d been taken from them, brought to a fairy-land for reasons unknown, kept here with promises and lies. Why had the woman not heard her child calling at her window? Hook had no doubt that Tinker Bell had intervened that night, to keep Peter with her forever. If the pixie truly cared for the boy, she would have unlatched the window… she was good enough at picking the locks Billy put on cages and restraints, why could she not unlock a simple window? Had magic been used to deafen the woman to Peter’s calls?
At the thought of the pixie, Hook looked around. “Does your fairy know you’re here?” Hook asked.
“No,” Peter answered, fiddling with the cloth on his hand. “She was too tired to keep up with me and I was too upset to slow down for her. I came straight here.”
“Do you still want me to kill you?” Hook asked. “I will, if you wish it.”
Peter shrugged listlessly. “I don’t know. Yes… I want to see her again. I want to tell her I’m sorry I left her and that I still love her.”
“You don’t have to die to tell her that, Peter,” Hook admonished. He would kill Pan, if the child truly sought release. But he preferred to kill the boy in vengeance, not pity.
“How?” Peter whispered. “Please, tell me.”
“Well,” Hook said, thinking, “when I miss my mother, I talk to her portrait. Seeing her makes me remember her better, so I can imagine she’s right there. If you think about your mother really hard while you speak, your thoughts will be strong enough to carry your words to heaven and she’ll hear you.”
“I don’t even remember what she looks like,” Peter sighed.
Hook considered that for a moment before he got an idea. He stood, still holding the boy to him, and went to his desk. Within a drawer he found an old shaving mirror. He handed it to Peter and returned to the chair.
“What’s this for?” Peter asked, looking at himself in the mirror.
“Your mother shows in your face… your father too. If I had pictures of both of them, I could cut them into pieces and mix them up to make a picture that resembles you. If you want to know what your parents looked like, you have only to look at yourself. Look into the mirror and think of your mother. It might help to squint a bit, but you should see her. Then you can talk to her whenever you like.”
Peter remained silent as he did what Hook said. After awhile he gasped in surprise, the blurry image of himself in the mirror changing slightly to become the woman he’d left so long ago. “I love you, mommy,” he whispered, then clutched the mirror to his breast. “Thank you, Captain,” he said softly.
“Do you still feel you need to die?”
“No,” Peter answered, his voice a little stronger.
“Damn,” Hook growled. “Oh well, I’m too tired to kill you tonight anyway. I’ve got an awful enough mess for Smee to clean up without getting your blood everywhere. If you’re up for it tomorrow, I’ll kill you then.” He sighed then, the joking light-hearted act was not a comfortable role for him. But it had gotten a small giggle from Peter, a sound of genuine amusement, not dejection. “If you ever feel suicidal, Pan, then please come to me. I will be very disappointed if you robbed me of the chance to kill you.”
“I will, Captain, I promise.”
“You can have the mirror,” Hook said, surprising himself with the offer.
“Thank you,” Peter said, looking surprised himself. But then he shook his head. “Will you keep it safe for me? I’ll probably forget about Mother again when Tink catches up, and I might lose the mirror if I forget what it’s for. If I ever remember her again, I’ll come here to talk to her… maybe you can tell me about your mother.”
Hook nodded, “Alright then, a mother’s truce between us. If either of us is sad about our mothers, then we shall not fight.” When Peter agreed and they shook hands, Hook set him back on his feet. The boy stood unsteadily, blinking his red rimmed eyes in an attempt to keep them open. “Can you fly home, boy?”
Peter nodded and lifted a few inches off the floor. He hovered a moment before he dropped, and Hook barely steadied him before he fell. “How long does it take you to fly between here and there?”
“There is no time… but it’s an awfully far way to go.”
Hook steered the boy to his bed and it showed how exhausted Peter was that he let Hook put him into it. The man returned to his chair and sat in quiet contemplation as he waited for Peter to drift into sleep. Before he could forget, he wrote down the names and dates Peter had given him. If he ever killed Pan and escaped this isle, he’d find the cemetery and leave flowers on the grave of the boy who might have been.
Peter kept the mirror clutched to him in sleep, and when his dreams came he moaned and cried so pitifully that Hook found himself by Peter’s side, gently stroking the boy’s forehead until he calmed. Then at last Hook gave in to his own exhaustion and lay beside the boy in his bed, remaining atop the blanket to avoid actual contact with Peter.
Hook slept deeply and dreamlessly, lulled by the boy’s soft breathing. When he awoke late in the morning, the child was gone. The room was clean again, all trace of Peter’s magical outburst wiped away. “A dream,” Hook mused as he gazed at his possessions. Even Smee couldn’t have returned everything back to their proper places so accurately and without waking him. “He wasn’t here. I dreamed it all.” It saddened him, actually, and he rose from his bed with a heavy heart.
Hook paused at a glint on the desk, and he frowned when he saw the mirror lying there. Beside it he saw a small bouquet of forget-me-nots and bluebells, which had most definitely not been there the night before. Hook frowned as he looked up at the open window.
“You really should learn to knock, Peter, and windows are not the proper way to call on someone.” Hook smiled slightly then as he put the mirror away. “But you’ll never find my window barred against you.”